


This room does not exist

by Devils_Open



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Comatose Rape, Forced Orgasm, Hypnotism, M/M, Purple Prose Madness, That Infamous Nine-Year Gap, ego death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devils_Open/pseuds/Devils_Open
Summary: It takes a lot to rebuild a man from the ground up.
Relationships: Ocelot/Venom Snake (Metal Gear)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	This room does not exist

The human mind is capable of many illusions. Of pain, of the future. 

What determines whether the psyche undergoes the due process of trauma which is preceded by psychic death depends on present circumstances, and nothing more. 

Conditioning is everything. 

For a time, Snake wasn’t yet punished. He wasn’t a phantom, either, or a serpent of any kind in his own right. He existed within a room, and a box inside of his own mind, built up around him by someone else.   
In the beginning, the walls were made of straw; the soft, malleable clay inside lay untouched, waiting to be molded. His thoughts at the precipice of something greater, gazing into a hazy nothingness, completely oblivious as they wantoned back to something infantilized, dumb to the world, as clean a slate as could be. 

Someone else lay beside him for those nine years. They weaseled their way past every barrier and carved out something new, some semblance of a large man framed in a very small picture. Big Boss meant everything before, and then he became a confusing facade, and an ego that couldn’t be facilitated.   
Subconscious uprooted, destroyed was everything that ever breathed individuality, siege laid to that single expression of humanity during the years before the upheaval of a coma. 

On the pages of history, it all happened in the blink of an eye. A decade means nothing to a world ever changing, a grain of sand on the cosmic scale; however, it was everything to one man. 

Surrogate fathers bled their essence into him until waking up meant becoming, his hospital bed a womb. The new consciousness he would facilitate was another man’s entirely. Catatonic dormancy with an end that felt synonymous with birthing. 

His gaze pans across the room with a confused glint in his single eye, glazed over, shimmering with ignorance. He doesn’t hurt yet, he’s observing.

“Are you ready to come to life, Big Boss?” 

He inhales the scent of a Star Of Bethlehem flower. The stamens smell of musk and clove. For some reason, it brings him peace, almost soothed. 

Doctors sidle in and out and never ask questions. The man in the red scarf talks too much. They can’t get a word in. 

The phantom stirs, and his chest feels vacant as he lies still, lungs hollow, his body pointed at the ceiling. His back burns with angry sores and fabric chafing. His joints are stiff. 

The man hushes him. His hands are gloved and soft as they venture to provide meager physical comforts. “You don’t have to wake up just yet. By my count, you’ve still got six months. Can you tell me your name?” 

The words leave the phantom’s lips before he can articulate a reason as to why, because he doesn’t yet identify with the name he utters; the response is more habitual at this point than anything. 

“Big Boss.” 

It’s garbled and unintelligible from almost a decade of larynx dormancy. The other man makes a sound at it, something quietly observant, patient. 

“Do you know who I am?” 

A plethora of names flash through the phantom’s mind. He settles on the one he’s heard the most. Where he heard it, however, escapes him entirely. It exists somewhere on a dusty bookshelf with mementos he can’t remember personally obtaining. 

“Ocelot.” 

Ocelot takes his word for it. 

Confirmation; he assigns a face to the name, that of the one that’s right in front of him. He’s sure of himself now, on that front alone. 

They both know the phantom’s voice won’t be his just yet. He’s still acclimating, and his developing speech patterns have quite a way to go. 

His gaze is that of someone staring down at an insect, or perhaps a bug in a jar. A guinea pig he’s yet to train. 

“You aren’t awake,” he says. He props his elbows on the bed’s rickety railing. “Not just yet.” 

A deeper haziness instantly washes over the phantom’s vision. He suddenly feels like he’s dreaming, because the scarfed feline states that he must be. 

“You can act like it for now, I won’t be mad. This is good, actually. You’re stretching your legs a little.” 

He leans in closer. His fingertips go where his pupils focus. They blow wide over the decade-old surgical scars along the phantom’s chest. He prods them with a certain longing. 

“You know your name, but who exactly are you? What do you know?” 

He’s input code and chosen to forgo the semicolons; nothing is computing. His question is too vague. It’s beckoning a precise knowledge that doesn’t yet exist. 

The phantom’s eyes flutter. He’s valiantly trying to deny himself a muscle spasm of idiopathic form, confusion making his consciousness convulse, caving in on itself. Ocelot’s figurative nametag fades in and out until he’s just another stranger in the room, once anchored by feeble knowledge. 

Ocelot turns his hand and caresses the sunken concave of the phantom’s cheek with his knuckles. His touch isn’t soothing, but his words are more than an intimated suggestion. 

He hushes him once again. “Calm down.”

The phantom wheezes like a terrified toddler. He isn’t strong enough yet to hold up the weight of his own arms, so he instead grips the bed sheets with shaky hands, his fingers feeling detached and disembodied through the stagnant numbness of his weakened joints. 

“Let’s try something specific.” He humors the phantom, raising one brow. “Militaires Sans Frontières was your private militant force. Who was your subcommander?”

Cornflower blue eyes and swathes of blond bleached by the sun flash by. Shimmering golden aviators with a constant glare in the left lense. It’s a pretty picture, even if the entity it pertains to is still so foreign. It doesn’t feel like a trusted companion or a valued consultant just yet, it’s more so like a commander, something to look up to. 

He picks a name out of a hat and tosses it, feeling unlucky, confused. 

“Kazu—“ he forgets the last two syllables, pausing to cough. He tries again. “Kazuhira.” He phrases it like a question, his voice defeated and small. 

“That’s right. Miller.” 

Pride follows the reinstatement. He solidifies the name inside his mind and ties it to those exotic features, every swatch of golden and royal ascot yellow, it all feels connected now. 

“You were in contact with one other significant person at that time, though he was unrelated to Militaires Sans Frontières,” he says, curling his lip at his own botched pronunciation of the dialect he’s always loathed. “Can you tell me his name?” 

Mulling over the many confusing memories still only halfway patched into his mind, he has difficulty finding an answer. 

Something maroon and pale, and awfully egotistical jumps out at him. Descriptors are more obscure, and nothing seems to make sense.   
It’s an image of two men; one is young, and boasting of something insignificant, wearing a red beret and a uniform quickly fading out of use. The other’s hair is grown out and silver, his claws sharpened like a feline though he behaves as a serpent does, slithering into the gardens of others. 

For a moment, it’s an insignificant creature, that which one would find in a jungle. A feral cat. 

And then, it’s a man with significance. 

The phantom feels sure of himself. “Adam.” 

Ocelot smiles. “You’re right. Adam was your outside informant, that’s real good.” 

Once-broken ties reconnect and suddenly the associations aren’t so feeble. ‘Adam’ is everything red and insolent until it grows gray with age, learns its way around twisting the truth. 

The phantom’s neck aches from looking over at Ocelot. He sighs, dropping his head back against the deflated pillow behind him. He’s tired, and he would express that verbally if he were permitted. 

Ocelot’s expression suddenly shifts, his eyes half-lidded, casting a downward stare at the phantom which dares to border on predatory. 

“What did Adam mean to you? Did you enjoy his company?” He smirks, likely already knowing the phantom’s ensuing confusion. 

It isn’t his job to decide what he was or wasn’t, or who’s presence he did or didn’t value. Ocelot is here to decide that for him as attempting to do it himself causes him distress. Ocelot just seems to enjoy watching him squirm under questioning. It’s cat-and-mouse, but neither are running. 

Aching pains course through the phantom’s head, behind his eyes. He can’t think of an answer as he’s never considered anything beyond what he’s been told. He’s not ready to grow yet, he’s just an empty canvas. 

This is Ocelot gauging how well his pet project is responding to the hypnosis treatment, but the phantom doesn’t know that yet, and he won’t for a very, very long time. 

Ocelot stares down at him along the bridge of his nose, grin lopsided. “You valued him, didn’t you? He felt like the embodiment of safety because you knew he’d never lie to you. You loved him, more than you ever cared for Miller, no matter how your pasts together may have been.” 

The phantom archives every word, unaware that he’ll forget each later on. Their meanings will linger behind, however, because Ocelot’s word is not a suggestion, but a solid fact. He’s been conditioned to think it so. 

Ocelot glides his hand down the phantom’s chest. His sternum protrudes, his ribs an uncomfortable jutting and his skin greasy, tight. He hums absentmindedly. “You remember loving him. You were obsessed with the way he sounded through the dull static of your radio, and you two traded information like kids passing notes in class. He meant everything to you.” 

His hands toy with the loose drawstrings of the phantom’s hospital-blue sweatpants, idly popping the elastic waistband. The phantom shifts at the uncomfortable feeling, his hips pressing downward into the bed seeking an escape from the sensation, which only causes him more discomfort. 

Ocelot continues, his tone low and sultry. “You two pretended not to entertain the other’s attraction, but you both knew what was happening. Miller was a tramp and a pathetic sidepiece. Adam was long-term in your eyes.” 

He pushes below the band on the phantom’s sweats, and begins to leisurely fondle. 

“You loved him then just as much as you do now. You would do anything for him.” 

The phantom desperately sighs, his toes curling, his fists balling in the folds of his blanket. His eyes screw shut as a pathetic moan rises up at the base of his throat. He begins to thrash. 

“Keep still,” he commands placidly, devoid of any real care as to if the phantom actually does. “You loved him. You’re willing to die for him, even now.” 

His hand ghosts over the phantom’s inner thigh until he moves upward, groping his flaccid length. He gives it a squeeze, and the phantom groans. 

He isn’t sure what to think. He’s being told to love something that’s causing him more discomfort than he can process. It brings about confusion and fear, and a distinguished sense of longing for things to just make sense, but he tries not to thrash as much as he would like to. 

Instead he groans, pressing his thighs together as tightly as he can to prevent Ocelot’s invasive hand from assaulting him further, but it’s a fruitless endeavor. His limbs are too weak to sustain prolonged movement and the strain of squeezing his legs together is too much for him to bear. He falls back against the bed with a whine, as limp as a ragdoll. 

Ocelot looks pleased with the sight of him appearing so defeated. 

He pumps the limpness of the phantom’s cock a few times, glancing over at his face and savoring every agonized reaction. The phantom cries out, his chest tight as he wheezes. 

Ocelot withdraws his grip and instead braces the protective railing on the bed’s frame. He lowers it and climbs onto the bed, situated atop the phantom and straddling his hips. He’s careful not to put any pressure on those frail limbs, but he wastes no time grinding down where their bodies meet. The hardness of his erection stabs uncomfortably into the phantom’s thigh and against the protruding point of his hip bone. 

He peels back the blanket that separates them and relishes the feeling that comes with one less layer. Just as most things are with him, however, it simply isn’t enough. 

His hands hook beneath the phantom’s legs and bend them at the knee, pushing them back and pressing his erection against the cleft of his ass. 

The feeling is indescribable. It’s painful, strenuous where it least of all should be, jostling joints that haven’t been properly used in almost a decade. The phantom weakly sounds aloud his pain, but he doesn’t quite protest. It’s as though shackles bind him to the bed, or perhaps the ones set in place by Ocelot’s words. They can’t be defied, regardless of what they serve to symbolize. 

“Don’t make a sound, now,” Ocelot says. “Remember that you always enjoyed this.” 

He reaches under the phantom and pulls his sweats down, exposing just enough of his ass to feel for his hole. He’s eyeing the phantom’s twisting expression as he thumbs it dryly, his finger forcing past the taut ring until he’s chafing against the phantom’s inner walls. He can’t help but to grin as the body beneath him seizes up, trying with all it’s might to suppress a loud cry. 

He makes a curious sound. “You’re tighter than he is.” It’s an observation that seems unintentionally vocalized, because he isn’t looking the phantom in the eye as he says it. “We’ll have to work on that.” 

His other hand gropes his own erection through his jeans, pressing the hard bulge against his palm as he prods the phantom’s hole. 

There’s a moment of agonizing slowness where his movements never waver, but the pace is so inconsistent that every pump or curl of his finger is a separate cry that the phantom must suppress. It’s far too erratic, impossible to adjust to. 

Without warning, he unbuttons his jeans enough to fish himself out with one hand, lining his hips up square with the phantom’s entrance. He lazily presses the head of his leaking cock against it. Precum quickly dampens the sheets at the base of the phantom’s ass as Ocelot jerks himself feverishly. 

Another cry of anguish, hardly suppressed. Tiny, defeated sounds slip past the phantom’s lips as he begins to tremble. 

Ocelot grips the base of his cock and presses forward. The phantom's back arches violently, lifting off of the bed. His noises of agony are almost enough to draw the nurses. 

It’s nearly too difficult to squeeze inside, but Ocelot manages. The phantom clenches as if to deter him but the tightness only seems to provide more of a heated friction for him to enjoy. 

Ocelot tilts his head back, sighing at the feeling of that pulsating heat gripping his cock like a vise. He quickly sets a relentless pace. 

There’s no keeping up for the phantom. Tears arise in his one eye, distraught and confused. Ocelot demands a reaction beyond what he can provide, so he sucks them up and lies still, as unreactive as he can be and beginning to wish that familiar haziness was prevalent enough to numb him to all of this. 

The velvety texture of a gloved hand experimentally toys with his cock, jerking him halfheartedly despite the sensation being minute beneath the fear and pain. Ocelot pulls one glove off with his teeth and spits in his hand, grabbing the phantom once again and jerking him off at an abrasive pace. The phantom cries out, his hips lifting off the bed and twisting, a valiant attempt to escape. 

The pace of Ocelot’s jerking motions mimic that of his thrusting. He snaps his hips forward, eliciting a stifled yell from the phantom every time. He groans, hissing through his teeth. 

“Enjoy this, boss,” he sighs between thrusts. “Stop fighting it. Show me how much you love this.” 

Despite the pain, the phantom does his best to abide by Ocelot’s words. He has a million queries but no way to vocalize them; he hasn’t yet been programmed to understand free will, that questioning is okay. He’s an obedient dog, not yet without his leash. 

He weakly locks his legs around Ocelot’s waist and attempts to push back against his thrusts, but the change in demeanor is too little to notice. He’s weak enough that the meager strength left in his body gives out, and Ocelot is the one pulling him back down onto his cock with each snap of his hips. 

Ocelot relentlessly pulls at his limp member, insistent that they both enjoy it. A more coherent phantom would see it for the conditioning that it is. 

“You’ll finish with me, Big Boss. Come on, just like old times.” 

Ocelot’s pace quickens as he continually brings their bodies together. The phantom’s whole being is in agony, long-dormant muscles being jostled and jerked enough that he feels as though he’s being broken, too weak to fight back but enough sensation despite the haze of a coma that he feels everything tenfold. 

They heave labored breaths together, until Ocelot leans forward and buries his face in the phantom’s shoulder. He’s mumbling something in russian that can’t be interpreted, his voice turning low and gravelly as he gives a last few thrusts of his hips. The phantom’s body feels hot, full. He trails dry kisses mostly comprised of teeth and tongue up the phantom’s jutting collarbone, to the cutting edge of his jaw. He pulls back, his lids low, expression no longer as hungry.   
He frowns down at the phantom. “I thought I said we’d finish together. What happened to doing as I say?” 

In a daze of fear and confusion, the phantom can hardly speak. He coughs, the salty streams along his cheeks drying up. 

“Why don’t I help you along?” His hands are already finding grip on the phantom’s length, jerking roughly. “It’s the least you could give me, considering you made me do all the heavy lifting.” 

It takes far longer than planned, but his assaulting hands bring the phantom’s wrecked body to a spasmic undoing. There’s no pleasure in it, only a muted cry and weak fists gripping the bed sheets. Ocelot’s hands are dry, however, save for his own saliva. 

He licks his fingers nonetheless. “Good job, Big Boss.” 

The room’s door opens, and an unfamiliar figure walks through. His face is a blank sheet of drywall, his personality, name, all punched in. He’s a memory that’s been ripped from the phantom’s mind, imperceivable. 

“Boss— you’re back on your feet rather quickly. “ 

The faceless man picks at a whiteness encasing his head, as if uncomfortable. He stares at Ocelot and the phantom, but quickly looks away nonchalantly. 

“It’s a non-smoking ward.”

“Boss…”

“If I listened to everything the doctor said, I’d probably die in here.” He gestures a hand at Ocelot, who’s pulling up his pants and removing himself from the phantom. “I don’t get the idea this is another one of your usual hypnosis treatments.” 

Ocelot chuckles. “You know me well, boss.” He caresses the phantom’s stiff body, eliciting a pained shudder. “Don’t worry about what I’m doing. I was just finishing up anyway.” 

Ocelot climbs off the bed and joins the faceless man by the window. The phantom can hardly see through a blurriness that clouds his vision, but he hears them, watching them move. They stand very close to one another. 

“So that’s what’s meant to replace me, huh? He seems different now than what he used to be. You sure you didn’t break him?”

“Have a little faith in my work. He’s coming along better than he seems.” Both of their heads shift to the phantom’s direction, eyeing him like a toy in a shop window. “He’ll be your shield and necessary to buy you some time. And I’ll be right by his side to make sure he lives up to your good name, the legacy of Big Boss.” 

“Can you keep it up? It’s one hell of a lie.” 

“It won’t be a lie. I won’t know his secret either. I’ll believe that he’s the real deal. I’ll have no conscious knowledge of you, or anything that we’ve done during these past nine years. Where’s the lie in that?” 

The foreign figure beside Ocelot gazes at the phantom, and it brings to him a feeling he doesn’t understand. Knowing, but also fearing. Sensing familiarity in his presence and unsure as to why it feels like an affront to his very existence. 

“He seems awake. You’re sure he won’t remember any of this?” 

“He may look it, but his mind is nowhere near conscious at the moment. He’s a blank slate. That is, until I make him into your very own phantom.” 

“Do me a favor and stop trying to break my decoy before it’s even alive, then.” 

“Of course, boss. I could put him back to sleep whenever I’d like.” 

They both near the hospital bed, ogling. No matter how close he gets, the faceless man’s features look no more clearer. 

Ocelot leans down, he and the phantom both gauging one another’s demeanor. Ocelot is the only one permitted to speak, however. 

“You’ll forget this, just as you’ll forget me.” 

The phantom’s eyes flutter shut and reopen, blinking confusedly, lights flickering as he defaults back to something less conscious. 

“In fact, you can’t even see me. You’re not sure I was ever even here to begin with.” 

Suddenly, the scarfed man is gone. The heat and stinging sensation in the phantom’s lower body is steadily fading. He stares at the only person left in the room - the man whose face is unreadable - his mind broken, confused, awaiting the next order. 

“You can’t see him, either. This room does not exist.” 

A darkness envelopes him in an instant, as if everything was sucked out into a void. He’s floating, a disembodied voice sending him back to a place of nothingness, devoid of feeling or emotion or sensation. He’s tired, wanting so desperately to escape, but confused as to why leaving this behind feels like losing all of his faculties. 

“Go back to sleep, Big Boss. We’ll see each other again soon.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a break from our regularly scheduled program to bring Ocelot’s unethical practices back into view.


End file.
